


Violence of a Different Sort

by gremlinquisitor (suchanadorer)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 13:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16347425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/pseuds/gremlinquisitor
Summary: It's a mystery, why some people would come to join the Inquisition without knowing who the Inquisitor is.





	Violence of a Different Sort

He doesn’t drink like he used to. 

It doesn’t taste the same, he thinks. Maybe part of it’s the quality; he has real money these days, and the Herald’s Rest sells proper ale and wine, among other things. No more of the watered-down swill he’d drink when he was still learning how to be Blackwall. But it’s more than that. There’s a different sort of satisfaction in sitting down for a drink or two after coming back from a mission, knowing that he’s helped. They did some real good today.

And here, tonight, he’s trying something new. Dalish liquor, brought in from the Inquisitor’s own clan. She’d requested it, and some soldiers had probably marched off to retrieve it. That’s the kind of power she has now, this redheaded elf sitting across from him, staring at the tabletop and laughing.

“I didn’t think they’d actually do it. I should’ve known better,” she sighs, rolling the cup between her palms. “All I said was that I missed it. I like it. I’m glad you like it. I don’t even remember saying it where one of them could’ve heard it.”

He chuckles, ducking his head in case she sees it in his eyes. He remembers exactly when she said it, shivering and soaking wet on the Storm Coast, marvelling over yet another bottle of Grey Whiskey they’d found. She’d passed it back to him to carry, a welcome weight in his pack even if he knew he’d never drink it. When she’d asked where his was, he’d lied - again - saying that he didn’t remember, that that was why they were finding these at all, they’d been left behind. She’d given him one of those looks that he didn’t deserve, sweet and a little sad, before moving on. Liquor was the topic of the day after that, and he’d learned more about Tevinter wine and the fine ales of the Free Marches than he’d ever thought possible. But she’d been quiet, seemingly content to listen until he’d asked her what the Dalish drink. After a moment’s thought, she’d told them about a spirit made with herbs and grass, strong, for drinking at the end of the day around the fire, or for special occasions.  
It had been the matter of a few words to the Ambassador to see it done, even if he’s sure that the Commander was the one who’d sent the men to retrieve it.

And so here they sit, each with what was a more than healthy share in their cups, though both are currently empty. He finds that he enjoys it, smooth and almost sweet to taste, though the drink is less important than the time spent with her. She continues to be not what he’d expected, to be more in every possible way.

“My turn to buy,” she quips, plucking the cup from his hands before he has a chance to complain. She’ll not pay anything at the bar and they both know it, but he lets her go, smiling after her. It’s rare to get her out of the main hall or the war room in the evening, but for some reason one of the bottles had wound up here, and so they’d wound up here as well. 

The heavy crash of a mug shattering on the floor draws him out of his thoughts, and he looks at the Inquisitor where she stands near the bar, chatting with Cabot. Blackwall doesn’t recognize the men, but that’s nothing new; more come every day, streaming in from all corners of the world to her cause, it seems.

“Oy, knife-ear! You want to get over here and clean this up?”

For a moment no one moves. Blackwall scans the room, looking for who the man could possibly be calling to. He knows there are girls, and boys, who clean the tavern. Some of them he knows well, and they’re all good people. The Inquisition needs more than soldiers to succeed, and he does what he can to make sure they know their importance.

But none of them are here tonight, and none of them are elves.

He sees her profile, the way her expression falls, piece by piece, as she comes to the same realization he’s reached. Her brow furrows, and the corners of her mouth sag, the weight of it tipping her chin down. Cabot gives her a nod, moving around the bar to clean the mess. As soon as he’s gone, she reaches over to take the whole bottle of liquor along with their cups.

“Now, then--” Cabot starts, but he doesn’t get far. The men are unruly, even Maryden shying away when one of them stands, sways, and shouts at the barkeep.

“You get back behind the bar and get me more ale. She’ll come clean it up, won’t you, wench?”

She flinches and Blackwall sees it, and he’s on his feet in the next moment, more than ready to ruin the man’s face as well as his evening. But the Inquisitor stops him, her hand in the center of his chest, the bottle still held in the ring of her thumb and forefinger.

“It’s not worth it. Come on, let’s leave.”

“My lady, did you not hear--”

“I heard,” she whispers, and when she lifts her eyes to look at him there is anger, but something else as well, and he is momentarily at a loss. He has seen this woman face down dragons. He can not imagine what could make her choose to walk away from a simple drunken idiot.

But she does, and he follows, glaring at the man as he shouts after them. There are already others on their feet, Chargers moving to escort the offender out into the night. Better them than me, Blackwall thinks. He’d just as soon throw the man from the ramparts.

She’s stopped at the bottom of the steps up to the castle itself when he catches up to her. Behind them, they hear the soldier being thrown out, but Blackwall puts his body between her and the scene, offering what little protection he can for her. She’s looking up, past the building at the sky beyond. It’s a clear night, cold, and the moonlight on her face seems to make her tattoo shine. He knows he’s heard the word for them before, but as he looks at her he can’t recall it, instead tracing the design around her eye with his gaze. 

“My clan used to trade with humans,” she tells him, taking a hit straight from the bottle. “I mean, they still do, I hope. I’m just… not there with them to do it.”

He sighs, unsure how to comfort her. “Inquisitor--”

Her voice is flat, but far from emotionless. She’s fighting for control of it, and he hears it when she wins out. “It’s not the first time I’ve heard it, is what I’m saying. But it’s been a while.” She smiles ruefully at that, shaking her head.

“As it should be,” he replies, settling his weight and folding his arms across his chest. “You’re the Inquisitor, no one should talk to you that way.” 

She turns her head to look at him, and he knows what he saw earlier in the bar. It was shame, and it’s gone now, but the anger remains. “No one should talk to any elf that way.”

She pauses, considering, and he watches the anger change as she harnesses it. He wonders what it’s like for her, to face what must be a familiar indignity, only to realize the options she has before her in her new position. 

“I want him and the men with him removed tomorrow. I do not want them as part of this Inquisition.”

Blackwall nods. He’s looking forward to the task. “I’ll see to it myself.”

At that, she gives him something closer to a real smile. “I thought you might. But Blackwall? When you do… don’t tell them who I am.”

He frowns, shaking his head. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t want them to think that they were sent away from the Inquisition for insulting the Inquisitor. I want them to think they were sent away for insulting an elf. I want them to think of the opportunity they were denied every time they look into the eyes of someone like me.”

He has to fight to keep from smiling at her. It would be the wrong reaction, but he’s so proud of her in this moment. This is the fierceness that will face down Corypheus and the wisdom that will lead them to victory. This is a woman he will follow to whatever end, growing into the authority she’s had forced upon her. He will help her with that burden, when he can.

“Right,” he replies. “As you say.”

She shifts the bottle so that it’s in the same hand as the cups before setting her free hand on his arm. He is surprised and touched by the gesture, as he is by so much of how she behaves around him. 

“Thank you. Good night, Blackwall. Thanks for the company.”

And with that, she sets off up the stairs, leaving him to go back to the barn on his own. Again, he is too cautious in his reaction to her affection. He tells himself it’s for the best.

“You taking that bottle with you, then?” He calls after her, laughing.

She lifts it above her head, not stopping or turning around. “You know I am.”

“All right. Good night, Inquisitor.” He stays until she’s disappeared in through the heavy doors of the hall, then turns to head back to towards the barn, doing his best to memorize the faces of the men he will seek out tomorrow, in front of as many officers and other recruits as he can manage.


End file.
